Birthday
by Love Like Homicide
Summary: Michael shocks Mike by getting him a present for his birthday. Michael/Mike pre-slash. (Re-write of Vampyric Birthday).


**A re-write of one of my old works. I loved the idea and thought it was really cute, but it wasn't all I'd wanted it to be the first time around. The old version is still up, but I'm much happier with this one.**

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Michael wraps his icy lips around the cigarette and squints as smoke drifts up. The heat feels nice on his tongue, like warm water sliding down cold skin, so he savours it, pulls it down into his lungs and holds it there. His eyes close and his head falls back against the cold brick wall, allowing the raw mountain breeze to graze his bare neck and wake his groggy mind. Wednesday mornings suck. He holds his breath for a few seconds longer then liberates the soft shroud of smoke from his rigid body. He frowns at the bitter taste left behind, like tree bark drenched in paint-thinner and set on fire in the back of his throat. He always forgets about the aftertaste, but that's addiction for you.

'You look cool when you do that,' Pete says, then takes a drag of his own cigarette.

'Thanks,' he replies offhandedly, face still to the sky.

Pete's phone buzzes in his pocket, and Michael turns his head slightly to glance down at him. 'It's Henrietta, she just picked up Firkle. They're on their way.'

Michael groans and drops the bud in the snow. 'Okay, let's get this over with.'

They climb up the slippery concrete steps to the side-door, Pete stubbing out his cigarette on the hand rail, and slip into the busy morning corridor. They take a moment to let their eyes adjust to the harsh fluorescent light, white and sterile like a hospital room, then weave through the herds of students to their practically unused lockers.

'So, what are we doing here?' Pete asks. He leans against the gaudy red metal and rolls a fresh cigarette around between his fingers, more out of habit than a desire to smoke.

'Don't freak out, okay?' He replies. His face is blank, but there's an edge to his voice.

'Okay. So why are we here?' Pete asks again, eyebrows raised. It's fairly common for Michael to get worked up over the smallest things, but he's also not one to keep secrets, so behind Pete's curiosity there is a shadow of panic. Whatever it is, it better not be a plant.

Michael doesn't answer and instead dives face-first into his locker. Pete tries to peer around him but can't see anything beyond the mass of wiry black curls. Nevertheless, he's fascinated. In all the year he's known Michael, he can count on one hand the number of times he's seen him use his locker, and yet he has somehow amassed enough belongings in one semester to be warrant digging _._ Michael is _digging_ through the junk in his locker. Michael has somehow _lost_ something amongst the junk in his locker. Fascinating.

'Dude,' Pete says, pausing to put the unlit cigarette in his mouth, 'what the fuck are you doing?'

'I know it's in here somewhere,' Michael mutters. A couple of unused textbooks fly over his head and narrowly miss some blond boy from Pete's art class. Shame.

'What is?'

'This.' He pulls out a logoless plastic bag. Before Pete can ask anymore questions he walks past him and into the gym. Into Vampire territory. Pete follows Michael to the large double-doors but doesn't go inside. It's too early to deal with those douchebags, even for a friend.

Michael approaches the bleachers and one by one the vamp-kids notice and begin to hiss. He stops in front of Mike and waits, stone-faced, for him to stand. Sure enough, Mike gets up and takes a couple steps forward, until they're less than an arms-length apart, and squares his shoulders.

'Hey,' Michael says.

Mike waits for him to continue, maybe insult him or ask for help on another absurd quest, but the Goth just stares. Realising Michael is waiting for his reaction, he shakes his head and lifts up a hand. The rest of the room goes silent. 'And to what do we owe this unexpected interruption? We're in the middle of some very important vampire business, per say.' He taps his fingers together in what he hopes is a mysterious gesture.

Michael rolls his eyes. 'For your birthday,' he says and holds out the bag.

'Uh…' Mike's mouth drops open. He glances between the bag and Michael several times, but his brain refuses to make the connection. Pete has a similar expression a few feet away, fresh cigarette now rolling on the dirty linoleum floor.

'You going to take it?' Michael asks. He does his best to look irritated, and not like he can feel all the blood in his body rushing to his face. Trying to give South Park's head vampire a birthday present is by far the most humiliating thing he has ever done, and the bastard's gawking doesn't help.

Mike recovers from his shock and clears his throat. 'What sort of trickery is this?' he demands, eyebrows creased, and hands held up in imaginary claws.

'Nothing,' Michael says and thrust the bag into the other boy's chest. 'You like, helped save me from emos or whatever, so I figured I'd acknowledge this faggy conformist celebration for you.'

'Oh–well –thank you?' Mike stammers, face red. He opens the bag and pulls out a hardcover copy of _Typhonian Vampyre Magick_ by Michael W. Ford. Mike gapes at it, then runs his finger across the cover, tracing the silver letters. 'This–this must have been expensive.' He mutters, completely awestruck.

Michael shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. 'Whatever. It's about vampires, and you need to try reading something that doesn't suck ass.'

'How much was it? There's no way I can accept this.' Despite his words, Mike hugs the book to his chest.

'I'm not taking it back. If you don't want it, you can give it to one of your conformist wannabe friends or whatever.'

'But Michael–' he's cut off by the bell.

Mike watches hopelessly as the other vamp-kids disperse, wishing he had more time. Michael takes a step back and turns towards the exit. Mike sees this and makes a quick, and quite reckless, decision. He takes a deep breath and braces himself for the worst. 'Um, Michael?'

'Yeah?' Michael turns his head just far enough for their eyes to meet.

He licks his lips. 'Do–do you want to come to my birthday party?'

'Sure.'

Mike's shoulders slump and he grins, cheeks still tinted pink. 'See you Saturday.'

'Yeah. See you there, Count Fagula.' Michael says with a smirk. He strides back out the double-doors and Pete almost has to jog to keep up.

'Dude,' Pete drawls once Michael has slowed to his normal pace, 'what the fuck was that about?'

He shrugs. 'Nothing, just a thank you. I'm not a total asshole.' They walk through the school's main doors and he pulls out a cigarette box.

'You're shaking.' Pete points to his hand.

Michael looks down. 'Yeah, well, maybe he's not a total asshole either.'

'That's why you're going to his birthday party?'

'Just shut up! God!' He snaps. Pete can swear his friend's ears are growing redder by the second.

They reach the back of the school and Henrietta glares at them, hands planted on her round hips. 'You guys are late.'

'I had something to take care of,' Michael says. He takes a drag of his cigarette and slides down the wall into his usual spot, knees at his chest. Henrietta and Firkle give him quizzical looks, but he ignores them, too preoccupied with getting his pulse back down to a healthy level.

They turn to Pete, who shakes his head. 'Trust me, you don't want to know.'

They're still curious but decide to leave it alone for now. Instead, the sole female of the group empties her tape collection onto the purple blanket. 'Okay guys, take your pick.'

And so continues another day for South Park's resident Goth Kids.


End file.
